


I'd Rather Be Your Lover

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Memories, Morning after awkwardness, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 20:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: It’s almost midnight in Monte-Carlo and for every reason Jean-Eric can think of why they should do this there are two reasons not to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is, just that I seem to have been writing it for ages without it getting anywhere - so hopefully posting some of it will spur me on to finish it. Set during the 2018 Monaco GP weekend. 
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by Madonna, cos I recently rediscovered the Bedtime Stories album, which is rather inspiring.

André takes a swig of water, leaning back against the kitchen counter and handing the bottle over to Jev. It's welcome relief to his dry throat after all the wine they've consumed this evening and Jev drains the bottle, crushing the plastic in his fist before setting it down on the polished granite surface, looking over at André with a wilful lust that he's no longer sober enough to keep fully in check. This is Rossiter’s flat, if they're going to ever take this beyond the charged flirtation it currently is then it shouldn't be here, now, when they're both unsteady and unable to rationally decide if this is a good idea or not. But if not now, when? Jev takes a step closer, his arms bracketing Andre's waist, gripping the counter as if he'll stumble if he lets go.

“Hey” Jev says softly, a little slurred with drink and the tiredness of weeks and weeks of racing with barely a break. André looks down at him curiously and if Jev was sober he'd panic more, he'd question it to death. Is this just a game, or more? If he was sober he'd remember the first time his lips touched Daniel's, the last time his lips touched Daniel's, how he'd wanted to die.

“Hey,” André says back, sliding one hand around Jev's waist and the other back into his hair, kissing him hard.

It's a dizzying experience - finally kissing André, the room spinning when Jean-Eric opens his eyes, their lips still brushing lightly together, reluctant to break the contact. The German’s hands wander down to Jean-Eric’s ass, squeezing gently before drawing him closer, close enough for Jean-Eric to feel that he’s hard. Jev presses against him, letting him feel that he’s not the only one. He wants to ask if André’s done this before, and if he has then who with. Is there a reason that he has a spare set of keys to this flat?

He thinks back to Marrakesh and testing, how tactile André had been with James in the same sort of way he is with Jean-Eric. It isn’t jealousy, but Jev doesn’t sleep around, excepting that brief period post-Daniel when he’d fooled himself into thinking he could fuck the Australian out from under his skin rather than just riding out the heartbreak. He’s possessive, sharing André is not on the cards.

“I guess I should tell you I’m bisexual,” Jean-Eric feels the need to clarify - just in case André thinks this is some sort of off the cuff experimentation that he hasn’t thought through - and that honestly, all his flirting has been about this, not about camaraderie between teammates, playing up the bromance. It's not that those things aren't real, it's just that beneath them has always been this, this need, an attraction that Jean-Eric can't remember not existing. When he falls he falls hard and he wants André to know that for him it stopped being a game months ago.

André’s hand stills on Jean-Eric’s back where he’s slid it up beneath his shirt, “Well yeah I figured that out. I mean, I hoped but I think this is confirmation,” he motions between them both, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively “unless this is the first time you’ve kissed a guy.”

There’s heat in André’s eyes when he says that, despite the teasing, as if the suggestion is too much. He grinds his dick against Jean-Eric’s thigh as if to demonstrate.

Jev had wanted something a little more in return, some kind of admission about what this is to André, if it’s just an itch he’s desperate to scratch or if it’s more. André can’t possibly think about this as much as he does, every time they share a podium, a car journey, a meal. Is André just a tease or is he as deep into this as Jev is. Jev’s still wary of revealing too much of himself in this context and in the end it’s just easier not to bring it up.

“Would you like it if it was? My first time I mean,” Jean-Eric asks instead with a playful smile, because he knows where they are with teasing. He presses his mouth to Andre’s again, his arousal building as André sucks on his tongue, snaking a hand down between their bodies to rub at his dick over his jeans. Jean-Eric bites back a moan, feeling shivery-hot all over from all the wine they’ve drunk and the sensation of Andre touching him, the intoxicating magic of Monaco. Everything together feels almost too much but at the same time it’s not even close to reaching the pinnacle of what he wants: a Championship, a relationship, both of them real and permanent, something tangible that won’t slip away.

“I think whoever was lucky enough to fuck you for the first time was really fucking privileged,” Andre whispers, dipping his head to kiss at Jean-Eric’s neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin just below the soft stubble of his beard.

Jev smiles at the compliment but he’d rather not think of that now; his head is full of dark corners and memories, cobwebs that only André seems to be able to blow away. He gets down to his knees somewhat unsteadily, his hands on André’s thighs, sliding slowly up to undo his belt buckle.

It’s almost midnight in Monte-Carlo and for every reason Jean-Eric can think of why they should do this there are two reasons not to. Yet he can’t bear the thought of stopping now.

“I thought about this on the yacht earlier,” André confesses, reaching down to stroke Jean-Eric’s cheek tenderly, thumb tracing his kiss-swollen lips. Jean-Eric licks at the tip of André’s thumb, a teasing promise of what will follow.

*      

Jean-Eric’s head is fuzzy, brief snatches of the previous evening coming back to him as he swallows down some water from the glass beside the bed, the other side of which is empty –  the sheets cool enough for Jean-Eric to realise it has been unoccupied for a while. He groans against the glare of the morning light, rubbing his eyes to try and wake up even as his body protests. The cool Egyptian cotton is heaven against his skin as he stretches out and it would be so easy to sink back into sleep. He closes his eyes again, trying to concentrate on one thought at a time in an attempt to evade the rising hangover panic that’s looming, sliding a hand down his stomach to where the flaky residue of semen is matted into the dusting of hair.

They’d kissed and kissed, deep hungry kisses that had melted Jean-Eric’s insides and taken him apart; they’d kissed with André’s come shared between their lips and Jean-Eric’s knees aching. André’s hands on him is the last thing he remembers, the overwhelming sensation of being touched all over, calloused fingers jerking his dick and André thumbing at the head until he was whimpering with the need for release. His face flushes with shame at the memory of his neediness.

After the need to piss and the knowledge that he has to actually be presentable enough for live TV in just over two hours compels him out of bed and into the shower, he finds André in the kitchen half dressed, hair damp and pale shirt billowing open in the breeze from the window as he cracks some eggs into a pan. It’s a familiar sight of domesticity – they’ve shared enough hotel rooms and apartments over the last few months that there’s nothing weird about this, except maybe that André has never cooked for Jean-Eric wearing only his underwear before. Jean-Eric lingers in the doorway, a sharp intake of breath as he watches his teammate.

André breaks into a smile when he sees Jev, the same sort of smile that they always have for each other, slipping back into the ease of a friendship built on the kind of affectionate banter that has never been shy of flirtation. Jean-Eric feels shier now than he ever has around André before, even as the two of them sit at the table, thighs pressed close and fingers brushing together over the cafetiere.

It’s normal – yet there’s something lingering heavy and unspeakable in the shadows of a bright Monaco morning. Jean-Eric tries the words out in his head but there’s no time for the sort of conversation he thinks they probably ought to have.

In the end it’s easier to just finish breakfast, fighting over the last croissant and trying…trying so hard to not read nothing into everything. André’s day is free of commitments and Jev feels a pang of longing to stay when he says goodbye at the door. André looks him in the eye for the first time the whole morning, kissing him briefly and perfunctorily on the lips; not at all in the way that Jean-Eric wants to be kissed. He makes it down to Port Hercule in time for Qualifying, in time to watch his ex-boyfriend put the Red Bull on pole, a strange feeling creeping under his skin at the sight.

It’s a future that was never destined to be Jean-Eric’s and it’s also one that he no longer covets, not now, yet it makes him feel vulnerable in a way.

It makes him realise how much he needs André.        


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apartment is empty when Jean-Éric goes back to change, the scent of André’s aftershave lingering in the bathroom and a mug in the sink that still has a grainy trace of coffee in the bottom. Jean-Éric leans back against the kitchen counter for a minute, thinking of last night and how easily he’d sunk to his knees on this very floor, the look in André’s eyes and the way he’d touched Jev’s face lightly, almost with reverence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it has been a looong time but I finally found some inspiration to continue this. I've written a lot of fic since the first chapter of this and feel like I've got a better handle on writing them both in the last few months, so apologies if this chapter doesn't quite feel in sync with the previous one. 
> 
> Thanks to those who read the drafts and encouraged me during the writing process, much appreciated!

It’s evening by the time they catch up with each other again, Jean-Éric’s hangover having dissipated into a dull aching tiredness that isn’t just a result of the alcohol he’d drunk the night before. All through the TF1 broadcast he’d felt exposed under the eye of the cameras; the makeup artist taking one look at the dark circles under his eyes and tsking in despair.

There’s something about doing live TV that makes him feel slightly on edge at the best of times but today it feels as though his misdemeanour is written all over his face for the world to see, like he may as well be broadcasting the fact that he’s had sex with his teammate. He knows it’s partly hungover paranoia but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s fucked everything up somehow, a nauseating sensation manifesting in his stomach as he watches Daniel take pole, as if he’s somehow cheated on the Australian. In itself that’s laughable and just because neither of them had the balls to actually end the thing they had properly, doesn’t mean it still exists. Jean-Éric had stopped wondering if the situation would resolve itself years ago, around the same time he began to view Daniel as a chalice tainted with the same poison that had decimated every dream he’d had since the moment he’d sat in a kart for the very first time. His feet didn’t reach the pedals then and sometimes it still feels that way, as if everything he needs is just a fraction out of reach. Being in Monaco, and specifically being in Monaco on race weekend, feels almost like encroaching on Daniel’s territory.

There are no messages from André throughout the day, no amount of checking his phone changes that and even though he knows he’s being irrational he can’t shake the feeling that it’s a deliberate avoidance rather than just the case of both of them being busy. André has enough friends in the area, hell he even has a paddock pass although Jev doubts he’ll use it, the fascination and hope of F1 long cast aside with a derision that Jev finds both admirable and irritating.

For something to fill a space in the day more than anything else, he sends a quick text to Dan, congratulating him on pole and casually mentioning he's in Monte Carlo, for reasons he isn't even sure of. They're okay now, he guesses, him and Daniel. Whatever okay means. Still, there’s a memory he hasn’t thought of in such a long time that rears its ugly head occasionally, never eradicated completely, the tone of Daniel’s voice more biting than the wind that whipped against Jean-Éric’s face as they walked down the high street. They’d been in Milton Keynes he remembers, some department store one day towards the end of the season, shopping for something that he can’t even remember now, maybe a Christmas present for Léa. The cashmere of the scarf was soft beneath his fingers as he’d draped it around Daniel’s neck, stepping back to admire the pale blue of the material against his tanned skin. Jean-Éric had felt so grown up back then, so stupidly unashamedly in love. Daniel’s laugh when he’d peered in the mirror was the same laugh as always but in Jev’s memory it holds a tone of cruelty, playground stuff. “ _I think it suits you better, mate. It’s a bit too gay for me._ ”

It was nothing really, but it sowed enough doubt in Jev’s mind as to what it was that Daniel thought they were doing; further throwaway comments over the months that followed leading to a deepening confirmation. Jev was Jev, he couldn’t separate his identity as a driver from the fundamental core of who he was, he couldn’t play the game the way Daniel could. It didn’t matter that him and Jev shared a bed, a flat, a team; Daniel was straight – even when he was on his knees with Jev’s cock in his mouth he still considered himself straight. It was a passing distraction.

The thought that André, with his reputation as a playboy, his killer smile and easy charm, might also see himself the same way is crushing after last night. The idea that Jean-Éric, having not been with a man in years, may have lost his heart to a teammate who has no use for it _again_ is devastating.

*

He talks himself into and out of texting André as the sun reaches its peak in the sky and starts to slope down again, finally caving around 6pm when he’s recovered sufficiently to realise he should probably eat at some point. He’d completely forgotten they’d planned to go to the grand opening of Coya this evening until André replies to his text and mentions about meeting him there.

 

The apartment is empty when Jean-Éric goes back to change, the scent of André’s aftershave lingering in the bathroom and a mug in the sink that still has a grainy trace of coffee in the bottom. Jean-Éric leans back against the kitchen counter for a minute, thinking of last night and how easily he’d sunk to his knees on this very floor, the look in André’s eyes and the way he’d touched Jev’s face lightly, almost with reverence. Jean-Éric has to walk past the open door to André’s bedroom on the way to his own and he pauses in the doorway, looking in and trying to recall the scene that had played out there the night before. He knows he shouldn’t but it seems impossible to stop himself from stepping inside, kicking his shoes off and lying down on the unmade bed, pressing his face into the sheets that still smell of André, of sweat and sex.

It’s some time later when he opens his eyes again, confused and unsure where he is for a second. Night has fallen outside and André is leaning against the door jamb, studying him inscrutably. “You're in my bed,” he says.

Jean-Éric blinks into the darkness. The blinds are still open and he’s disoriented for a moment at the lack of sunlight from outside. André hasn’t switched on the bedroom light and Jev can’t make out his face properly from the one in the hallway that shines behind him, putting him in shadow. There’s no way to explain what he’s doing asleep in André’s bed, hugging the pillow André had slept on; easier instead to ignore it altogether, he decides. “What time is it?” Jean-Éric asks, still trying to clear out the cobwebs from his mind.

André walks closer to him, standing at the foot of the bed. “Eight-thirty. You stood me up. I thought you got a better offer.” There’s an edge to André’s voice that Jean-Éric hasn’t heard before, none of their usual banter in his tone.

“No,” Jean-Éric says, softly. “I must have fallen asleep.”

André leans down to remove his shoes before turning back to Jean-Éric, his stare piercing, heated. “In my bed?” he says again, a tiny hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

Jev decides he’s braver than he used to be. “Yes. Is that a problem?” He tries desperately not to panic, convinced that André is about to tell him what a mistake last night was, how it was just the wine and the camaraderie of their bromance, that it’s because he hasn’t got laid in a while.

“ _It’s not gay, right? It’s just cos there’s no chicks around.”_ He cringes at the memory. And then the time it all became too much and Jev couldn’t bite his tongue any longer, couldn’t fathom how Dan could be so fucking blind as to deny it when they were in a relationship in all except name. “ _Just because you might be gay don’t be labelling me like that, Jev.”_

_“Bi, Dan, I’m bi and what, you’re trying to tell me you’re not? Because you’re the one doing the fucking that means you’re perfectly straight, it’s all just about convenience.”_

_“You started it,”_ Dan had said with all the petulance of the teenager he’d not long ago been. “ _It’s not like it’s important anyway, Jev.”_

It was possibly that last part that stung more than Dan’s persistent denial. _It_ becoming _you_ every time he thought about it. As it turned out, he hadn’t been that important to anyone back then, least of all himself.

“No,” André tells him, kneeling on the bed with his knees either side of Jev’s thighs, crawling up his body, “It’s not a problem, I just wish I’d known you were in my sheets or I would have ditched the model who was flirting with me at the bar sooner and come right back here.” He smooths Jean-Éric’s hair back from his face, looking down at him with an intensity that makes Jev’s mouth go dry.

“She wasn’t your type?”

“No. Women in general aren’t my type.” André ducks his head, pressing his lips against Jev’s mouth in a soft, almost cautious kiss. The slow brush of their lips together is nowhere near enough for Jev, the anxiety that’s been rolling around in his stomach all day only now beginning to crest and break with the sensation of Andre’s weight held over him. He reaches up, sliding a hand around André’s neck to anchor him in place, opening his mouth in invitation.

André, as Jean-Éric had seemed to somehow forget in the last few hours, is nothing like Daniel.

They kiss chastely, André holding back a little as Jean-Éric tries to deepen it, as if Jean-Éric is as fine wine to be savoured, catalogued and filed away like a memory to be revisited on a rainy day in a pitlane somewhere far from home. André leans his forehead against Jev’s when they part to breathe, their eyes meeting briefly before André closes his, sighing a little as if there’s a war going on inside his head, or that’s how it seems to Jev at least. Whatever internal monologue he’s having appears to reach a precipice when André draws back enough to toy at the neckline of Jev’s t-shirt **.**

“You shouldn’t be wearing clothes in bed,” he chastises, his breath warm against Jean-Éric’s face, his mouth sweet and spiced with the rum of the cocktail he drank earlier. Something about that makes Jev feel a flaming heat all over, the thought that André wouldn’t want to be fucking some beautiful model right now, that he’d rather be here, touching Jean-Éric again and making good on all the hinted desires of the last months, of last night.

The memory of twenty-four hours ago is hazy in the way that drunk memories are, but this feels 5K HD real; Andre’s stubble scratchy beneath Jev’s fingertips as finally André caves and licks into Jev’s mouth with intent, their tongues sliding together slow and wet. Jev whimpers, shifting his hips up into the press of André’s body covering him. They both tremble at the friction, Jev shivering as André slides his fingers up beneath Jev’s t-shirt and pulls it up to his chest, mouthing at the soft skin of his belly until he’s squirming. “Fuck, your reactions,” André says, Jev lamenting how transparent his own need is, how he can seemingly hide nothing of his want for this man.

Jean-Éric shifts back on the bed, sitting up a bit so he can pull his t-shirt off, tossing it to the floor. It feels every bit as reckless as the night before, the need for André not at all diminished and no alcohol in Jean-Éric’s blood to explain his actions this time. His hands shake as he fumbles with the buttons of André’s shirt, making a meal of getting it off. “Maybe we should,” Jev nods towards the window, but they’re on a high floor, only the distant ocean visible through the glass and far from prying eyes.

“I’d have to stop touching you, and that’s not going to happen. Fuck, everyone should see how gorgeous you look like this.” André works Jean-Éric’s trousers undone, pulling them off before getting up to remove his own jeans, lying down at Jev’s side and pulling him close to plunder his mouth again. It feels like André’s hands are everywhere, sliding up his back and then down his chest, dipping below his waistband to tease at the crease of his arse. It isn’t like Jev imagined the couple of times he’d dared allow himself to have those thoughts. He’d always figured André would display an immense level of control and discipline – and maybe if they do this again in somewhere that isn’t the bed James’ normally sleeps in when he’s home, if the walls weren’t thin and their feelings more defined then perhaps André would be. Now it’s as if he’s as desperate as Jev is, as if the spell will break if they stop for even a second. André is frantic, squeezing at Jean-Éric’s arse and sucking marks into his collarbone, grinding down against him in search of friction. Jean-Éric slides one of his legs between André’s, arching his back and pulling André further on top of him. He gasps at the wetness against his hip, the heat of André’s cock leaking through his underwear.

“Fuck, André I need,” Jean-Éric breaks off. _Everything_ , is what he’s thinking. “Will you fuck me?”

André bites at Jev’s bottom lip, pulling back regretfully to look in his eyes. “I don’t have any lube,” Which, neither does Jean-Éric, having never quite believed this was a possibility. He wants to say he doesn’t care, that they can make do, but it’s been a long time and André’s cock is rather sizeable.

“You mean you really didn’t plan this, then?” André raises an eyebrow.

“No. I wish I had,” Jean-Éric confesses.

“I think James has some in the bathroom.”

The inference prompts a thousand questions to burst forth into Jean-Éric’s mind. He watches as André climbs off him and goes in search, feeling unsure of himself suddenly. He doesn’t know if he should finish undressing or wait for André, he doesn’t know what any of this means and they can’t blame it on being drunk this time, he feels raw and exposed, not used to being in a situation where he has no control, not for a long time. He strips down to his underwear, a hand pushed beneath the material to stroke himself; a distraction.

When André returns he’s naked, Jean-Éric unable to refrain from taking a sharp breath at the sight of him. His eyes are heavy lidded, dark with lust as he stands in the doorway watching Jean-Éric, opening his mouth to speak, taking a breath and then worrying his lip instead, almost as if he’d thought better of it at the last second.

It crosses Jean-Éric’s mind that maybe this is the worst idea he’s had in years, that it could ruin his title challenge, fracture his team. He wants to trust André though, and more than that he hopes desperately that now after everything he might just be able to trust himself too.

“I want this,” André says under his breath, almost to himself, Jev thinks. He tosses the half empty bottle of lube onto the bed and Jean-Éric wonders again at the nature of his relationship with James, his mind caught on other nights that André might have spent in this bed with someone else at his side; but then André is climbing on top of him, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Jev’s briefs and pulling them off, sliding down his body.

Jean-Éric screws his eyes shut as André takes him apart, biting at his own hand to quell the noises André’s tongue and fingers draw out of him. When they fuck it’s face to face, André thrusting into him slow and deep as they kiss, Jean-Éric clinging to him as he tries to memorise every touch, every push of André’s cock hot and thick inside him making him feel complete. André buries his face against Jean-Éric’s neck as he comes, hiding in a display of what would almost feel like shyness, if Jean-Éric didn’t know him better.

“I’ve got you,” Jean-Éric whispers as André shakes in his arms, trembling with something more than just the shivery bliss of his orgasm.

“Yeah,” André says, “you have,” turning away and pulling carefully out of Jean-Éric’s body as if being inside him is suddenly too much.

*

It’s some time later when Jev gathers himself enough that hunger wins the battle over sleep. He’s been dozing for a while, content in the warmth of André’s embrace. André’s touch on his skin is soft, his fingertips lightly tracing down Jean-Éric’s side and making him shiver not just with the slightly ticklish motion but the tenderness; it’s a characteristic Jean-Éric never imagined André would display. He closes his eyes again for a moment, losing himself to it, to the warmth of André’s chest against his back and the occasional press of lips at his neck. The entire length of their bodies are touching and like this Jean-Éric feels safe in a way that he hasn’t for a long time. He can feel himself starting to drift back to sleep, the rumbling of his stomach snapping him out of it as he forces his eyes open.

“We should probably have some food,” André giggles, kissing his shoulder.

Jean-Éric glances at the clock; they’ve missed their reservation now but there are some benefits to being a regular diner at the Mayfair branch of the restaurant and forty-five minutes later there’s a veritable banquet spread out between them on the bed.

“Mmm, try this,” André picks a croquette out of one of the boxes, feeding it to Jev carefully. The sea bass almost melts in his mouth and the hint of chilli sits warmingly on his tongue afterwards. André smiles and usually Jev would be unnerved about someone watching him eat but the way André picks through the boxes almost as if he has an inner monologue, taking bites of the sashimi and nodding to himself before guiding it to Jev’s mouth, makes him feel so considered.

“You’ll like the Salmón Nikkei, just the right amount of _tobiko,_ ” he says, scooping a little of the fish roe onto the end of his finger, pressing it to Jev’s lips. They’re both still naked aside for the sheet now loosely draped over them from the waist down and Jev shudders as André encourages him to suck his fingers clean, the tiny bubbles of salty roe bursting in his mouth. Jev’s eyes darken as he watches André bring his fingers to his own lips, chasing the traces of sour and salt and Jean-Éric’s saliva.    

“You’re such a foodie,” Jev laughs, watching as André cuts a delicate slice of ceviche, opening his mouth at André’s direction. As with everything else it’s delicious, even more so when André smiles after taking a bite of _corvina a la trufe_ and gets this faraway look in his eyes. “My grandma over in Peru makes something similar to this. Not so fancy but the same kind of flavours. She’d like you I think,” he says after a pause, his face seeming to fall for a moment, looking away from the inquisitive nature of Jev’s gaze. Jean-Éric’s lips part to speak, to say that maybe they could go to Peru together after one of the South American races next year, to ask questions he hasn’t even thought of yet.

André shushes him before he can get the words out, reaching for a cube of Wagyu beef, spearing it with his fork and turning it around so it’s coated in the marinade, touching Jev’s jaw with one hand and placing the food on his tongue. Some of the marinade escapes the corners of his mouth and trickles down his chin, André making a soft noise in the back of his throat and leaning in to lick the sticky sauce from Jean-Éric’s skin. “This is so good,” he says, voice low, and Jev isn't sure if he means the food or something else.

“I’ve wanted this,” Jev confesses, licking soy sauce from André’s fingers, his tongue swirling over the pads of André’s fingertips. “I’ve wanted this since the start, since Hong Kong, before then even…I don’t know.” He leans over the boxes of takeaway, resting his head against André’s shoulder.

André says nothing, holding Jev close and burying his face in his hair. “You look beautiful when you come,” he murmurs weakly, pulling back, looking away as Jean-Éric frowns.

They finish up the takeaway, Jev watching as André places the empty boxes on the floor to the side of the bed. He isn’t sure what happens now, some of the earlier uncertainty creeping back in. The sheets still smell of sex, of the sweet tang of the food they ate, a circularity between it all that makes Jev dream for a second of things that last. The day after every race is over he’s already thinking about the next one, an impermanence to it all. He wishes he knew what André was thinking, even with the bond they’ve forged there’s still something closed to him, locked away. He leans in, brushes his lips to André’s bare shoulder. All his things are in the other bedroom and he isn’t sure what’s expected, wanting to drag André down into the filthy sheets and fall asleep beside him, but unsure if that’s wanted, if it would be too much. Just for a second Jean-Éric wishes he was drunk like last night, that they could just pass out in each other’s arms and not have to face the conversation.

“That’s you,” André cuts through his thoughts, Jev confused for a second before he realises André means his iPhone, tossed to one side on the bed from when he’d called the restaurant. The message preview is still illuminated on the screen, the single line easy enough to read in a quick glance.

_Hey maybe I’ll see u tomorrow after the race?_

It’s innocuous as fuck and Jev doubts Dan even means it, doubts he has any intention at all of seeing Jean-Éric. It’s just something to say, a response other than silence to Jev’s earlier text.

André clears his throat, disentangling himself from the sheets, from Jean-Éric’s touch. “You should head to bed,” he says, not looking at Jev as he walks through into the en-suite, “need to get your beauty sleep for the TV viewers.” The words are teasing, but the sound of the electric toothbrush whirring loudly doesn’t exactly allow for a similar response. Jean-Éric looks at André’s naked back through the open doorway, longing to slide his arms around his waist and pull him close, guide him back to bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says instead.

The sheets on Jev’s own bed are cold, unslept in and fragranced only with detergent. Sleep doesn’t come easy.  


  
  



End file.
